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COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



The 
Shadowed Hour 



By 

John Erskine 



NEW YORK 

THE LYRIC PUBLISHING CO. 

1917 



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Copyright, 1917. by 
John Erskine 

Published July, igi? 



V 

The Trow Press, New York 

JUL 30 1917 



©GLA471362 



r 



To 
Pauline 



When imperturbable the gentle moon 

Glides above war and onslaught through the night, 

When the sun burns magnificent at noon 

On hate contriving horror by its light, 

When man, for whom the stars were and the skies, 

Turns beast to rend his fellow, fang and hoof — 

Shall we not think, with what ironic eyes 

Nature must look on us and stand aloof? 

But not alone the sun, the moon, the stars. 

Shining unharmed above man's folly move; 

For us three beacons kindle one another 

Which waver not with any wind of wars — 

We love our children still, still them we love 

Who gave us birth, and still we love each other. 



Note 

Of the following poems, Youth Dying was read 
before the Phi Beta Kappa Society at Columbia 
University on June 5, 191 7. Satan and Ash- 
Wednesday are reprinted, with the editor's permis- 
sion, from The Yale Review; The Sons of Meta- 
meira is reprinted, with the editor's permission, from 
The Lyric, 

I am glad to acknowledge a debt to Frederick 
Erastus Pierce, whose fine poem Armistice sug- 
gested my Satan. Mr. Pierce imagined a meeting 
between Michael and Lucifer, in which the rival 
angels laid aside their warfare for the moment, 
and recalled former eternities in the unspoiled 
heaven. I thought of a scene in which Satan 
should still challenge the Almighty, though the 
universe had long since gone to wrack. 

J. E. 



CONTENTS 

Youth Dying 1 1 

Satan i8 

Ash-Wednesday 25 

The Sons of Metaneira 37 



YOUTH DYING 

1 E who love youth, bring tears and aching hearts; 
For now the dark hour calls, and youth departs, 
Where the red scythe swings close o'er crowded 

fields, 
And stroke by stroke the vivid moment yields 
Our bravest, our most beautiful, our most loved. 
Against such loveliness Time would have moved 
Gently, to do his work with gradual grace. 
Marking with all but unseen lines the face, 
Whitening the hair and making dim the eye. 
Love, feeling the slow change, "Can beauty die?" 
Would ask, and mourn in poet-strain youth's dying. 
But now the bullet's speed outwings Time's flying; 
The bursting shell makes haste; the poisoned air 
Brings darkness, though the wild eyes start and 

stare : 

II 



And song is stilled, so close the horrors break, 
Only youth's name repeating, for love's sake. 

Over wide seas and far away youth dies, 
Yet here on us the growing shadow lies; 
First the brown khaki spreading through the room. 
As one by one death brings his hopes to bloom; 
Then vacant seats, and thoughts of youth at drill. 
And sense of near disaster mounting still. 
And wonder if these rooms again shall fill 
With boys young-hearted — or only phantom men 
To their accustomed seats shall come again. 
Haunting young hearts to follow where they led. 

Ye that love youth, come ere their hour be sped, 
And gazing in their eyes, behold if hate 
Drive them, or reckless pride bring on their fate; 
No hatred dwells in them, but quietness. 
Slow hearts to curse, and ready hands to bless. 
Slowness to cruelty, slowness to shame. 
And readiness to die. The dark hour came 

12 



Thwarting with malice their supreme desires, 
To kindle the ancient torch with clearer fires, 
More poignant music, the new world set to song, 
And art with modern pulses beating strong, 
Knowledge and justice free at every door, 
No more disease, and poverty no more. 
And man, their brother, by their aid to rise; 
Such dreams, not hatred, smoulder in their eyes. 
Such hopes the kindred stars above them rouse. 
Such starlike loves — true lips and happy vows. 

Their hearts are like the hearts of those with whom 
They share youth's dying; only a swifter doom 
At Antwerp, at Liege, ended such dreams; 
Such marching youth as theirs from London 

streams, 
From Sydney, from Cape Town, from Montreal, 
From Edinburgh, most beautiful of all — 
Such hearts, whom death called from their hopes 

away ; 
Paris, twice great in trial, more brave and gay 

13 



The darker grew the danger, in the wrack 

Gave up her youth and turned the peril back; 

Florence and Rome, firm in accomplished glory. 

Cities eternal, set it) timeless story. 

And many a hamlet on far Russian slopes 

That dreamed of forward time and new-born 

hopes — 
Death called to them, to us: "Now come away; 
When Youth is ready, why should Age delay? 
Mourn not for these; why grieve, when all must 

go!" 

Ye that love youth, ah, what of youth the foe! 
Alas, man's folly, and the mindless sin 
That bade this strife of youth with youth begin ! 
They, too, imagined a new world; they, too. 
Had dreams to brood on, and their work to do; 
Hate came not easy to them, nor their flesh 
Yearned to be dust again; only the mesh 
Of ancient lies ensnared them — die they must. 
And their true empire withers in their dust. 

14 



Ye that love youth, ah, not alone they perish 
Whom the sword covets and the ravens cherish; 
We who remain to win the towers of truth, 
How fares our battle, with no aid from youth — 
Our battle with the darkness evermore? 
Age yields the torch and follows, youth before 
Lifts it — but in what hands now shall it rise? 
The world grows old, time darkens, and youth 
dies. 

Ye that love youth, mourn not with tears, but pray 
Curses on the black hearts who willed this day, 
Who willed that youth should die, or, being blind, 
Pulled down pillars of wrath on lost mankind. 
May they know the last foulness they have 

wrought ; 
May their huge guilt come to them thought by 

thought, 
Like water dropping on the shaven skull ; 
May their racked conscience, quickened to the full, 

15 



Build a new hell for their new depths of crime, 
Till, thinking of themselves throughout all time, 
Their plea shall reach up to the Crucified 
To die by their own poison, as youth died. 

Nay, let them die and pass and be forgot, 
Our grief die, and our wrath, but perish not 
The justice-loving, the crusading heart. 
This will of youth to take the righteous part. 
So youth shall pass through death and still live on; 
Youth dies not — 'tis the shadowed hour is gone; 
To these rooms shall the springing steps return, 
And radiant the familiar eyes shall burn, 
New beauty gathering round us, and new truth. 
New wisdom, and new kindness — yea, new youth! 
Then not alone the supreme soul of France 
Shall light new paths for the new world's advance; 
Beethoven then shall stir with tragic power 
The children of men dying at this hour; 
Goethe shall speak to them — and they shall hear 
Their youth true-mirrored by the poet-seer; 

i6 



And smile a little at the note of strife 
In Heine, who made such hard work of life. 
Yea, let us pass with the dark hour of hate, 
So wisdom come at last — though late — how late! 
And youth be free to follow deathless wars, 
Ardent for love, still striving for the stars. 



17 



SATAN 

In the last hour, the utter lapse of time, 
Shrill from the vast the voice of Satan cried — 
"Hail, Lord of Heaven, Almighty Loneliness, 
World-maker! thou who not in love but wrath 
Didst shape this plot of sham infinitudes — ' 
Earth, the day-fire, stars and the useless moon, 
And man and creatures meaner, and called them 

good ! 
Good for how long? Lord, Lord, shall goodness 

end? 
Where shines the light that healed thy want of me, 
Light-bearer once, thy shadow-bringer now? 
Behold, the unsteady sun, now glow, now gloom, 
Like a spent coal blown on by wind and sand, 
Is quenched with sifting dust of the dead stars. 

i8 



Where is that world for which the heavens were 

made, 
That globe unquiet of the lava-spume 
Which from thine anger dript and cooled itself, 
That world whereon thy breath malign, thy vast, 
Ponderous loom of motion, force, and rhythm 
Stroking the planet-paths, at length begot 
Man in thy image, infinitely small, 
To squirm, and breed, and marvel at his race — 
Even of us, much more of things much less. 
To take the measure and impose the name, 
And fear us, or desire us, or forget? 
WTiere is that world by thee for man designed? 
See where yon little whiteness near the sun 
Walks virginal, a moon of innocence. 
That hell reformed, which of our deathless war 
Remembers nothing, nor of man's debauch 
In futile lusts he never learned from me, 
His godlike wallowings in the slough of love 
And fattenings of his purposeless desire; 

19 



Nor of man's end remembers, nor Its own 
Foresees, but coldly haunts the dying sun, 
Thy little world, which, being dead, is pure." 

So at the vaulted shell of utmost heaven 

Challenging toward the impenetrable beyond, 

The eternal questioner waited upon God. 

Merely to stand in that great light he strove; 

Even as a bird in a strong wind pendulous 

With league-long flight only his station holds, 

So beating up into the sight of God 

Satan no headway made, but with fierce wing 

Pushing from darkness, the orbed vacancy 

Retraced of an annihilated star. 

Soon, unrebuked, he shouted up through space — 

"Thou who didst build this crumbling universe, 
O Boaster, who wouldst bruise me with the heel 
Of man, but first wouldst play me for his soul, 
Alas, the pieces and the board wear out 
Ere the game quite begins! Omnipotence, 

20 



Did prudence whisper thee to this shrewd end, 
Or thy weak will that could not well create, 
Or hast thou played, Gambler Divine, as one 
Who sits no longer at a losing game, 
But sweeps the board away?" 

Still unperturbed 
The blessed silence of the face of God 
Came luminous against Satan as he strove. 
He then with moderated insolence — 

''Forgive, Almighty God ; for well I know 
Not from thy weakness flows this huge decay, 
But from thy central virtue, Change. Forgive 
One like me steadfast, who from star to star 
Tracked in exile my yearnings and my faith, 
The azure promise of my heart of light. 
Eternity, that only in me was; 
Whereon man gazing fed his want therewith. 
Like the cool stars to endure perpetually. 

21 



How should he dream of goodness but from thee? 
And this desire was good; who then but thou 
Should be his everlasting, his length of days? 
Thou knowest, who knowest all, in honorable 
Intent the least advantage to abjure, 
Though my own nature bred it, I drove out 
This strong delusion fromi man's clinging soul; 
Me only eternal, me the evil one 
He by my aid beheld; and worshipt thee 
The various, the time-server, the manifold death. 
Though I have helped man to a little truth. 
Lord, blame not me that his excited mind 
Hath thrown thee in these meshes of thyself. 
Thinking, since all things alter, God must change; 
Seasons of climax limit even the arc 
Of godhood, flowering ever from age to age, 
Full blown, then fading, then in bud again. 
But why, O Prudence, who alone art wise. 
Didst thou proclaim thyself Absolute Good? 
Man with his maggot reason sapped thy boast: 

22 



The perfect evil must at last be good, 

The perfect good be evil, for all evolve. 

Lo, man hath reconciled us, who before 

Diluted never our happiness of hate — 

Yea, in a twilight kinship hath confused 

What in our will were strange as night and day; 

Evil unprooted from me I have felt, 

With alien pang some graft of goodness known, 

And, though I look not on thy holy face, 

Wearest thou not some scars that once were mine?" 

On venom more sinister meditative 

Circlewise through wide heaven the Serpent 

swayed 
Cobra-headed, darting his vibrant tongue — 

"The secret of thy treacherous plan for him 
Did man not solve, the terminus foresee 
Of breath-departed dust and cooling earth — 
Unfathomable emptiness at the last? 

23 



Yea, did he not forestall thy trick, O God, 

And ere his end, annihilate thee first? 

For him were not all causes but deceits 

Raised by mirage in his hot, barren soul, 

Thou the mere shadow of his little self 

Cast large in front by me, his following light?" 

Wrath-wearied, yet defiant, Satan abode; 
Then baffled from the eyes inscrutable 
Of the First Patience and the Ultimate Gooxl, 
Into profounder hate the fiend withdrew. 



24 



ASH-WEDNESDAY 

(After hearing a lecture on the origins of religion.) 

JTIere In the lonely chapel I will wait, 
Here will I rest, if any rest may be; 
So fair the day Is, and the hour so late, 
I shall have few to share the blessed calm; with me. 
Calm and soft light, sweet Inarticulate calls! 
One shallow dish of eerie golden fire 
By molten chains above the altar swinging, 
Draws my eyes up from the shadowed stalls 
To the warm chancel-dome; 
Crag-like the clustered organs loom, 
Yet from their thunder-threatening choir 
Flows but a ghostly singing — 
Half-human voices reaching home 
In Infinite, tremulous surge and falls. 

25 



Light on his stops and keys, 

And pallor on the player's face, 

Who, listening rapt, with finger-skill to seize 

The pattern of a mood's elusive grace, 

Captures his spirit in an airy lace 

Of fading, fading harmonies. 

Oh, let your coolness soothe 

My weariness, frail music, where you keep 

Tryst with the even-fall ; 

Where tone by tone you find a pathway smooth 

To yonder gleaming cross, or nearer creep 

Along the bronzed wall, 

Where shade by shade through deeps of brown 

Comes the still twilight down. 

Wilt thou not rest, my thought? 
Wouldst thou go back to that pain-breeding room 
Whence only by strong wrenchings thou wert 
brought ? 

26 



O weary, weary questionings, 

Will ye pursue me to the altar rail 

Where my old faith for sanctuary clings. 

And back again my heart reluctant hale 

Yonder, where crushed against the cheerless wall 

Tiptoe I glimpsed the tier on tier 

Of faces unserene and startled eyes — 

Such eyes as on grim surgeon-work are set, 

On desperate out-maneuverings of doom? 

Still must I hear 

The boding voice with cautious rise and fall 

Tracking relentless to its lair 

Each fever-bred progenitor of faith, 

Each fugitive ancestral fear? 

Still must I follow, as the wraith 

Of antique awe toward a wreck-making beach 

Drives derelict? 

Nay, rest, rest, my thought. 

Where long-loved sound and shadow teach 

Quietness to conscience overwrought. 

27 ( 



Hearken! The choristers, the white-robed priest, 

Move through the chapel dim 

Sounding of warfare and the victor's palm, 

Of valiant marchings, of the feast 

Spread for the pilgrim In a haven'd calm. 

How on the first lips of my steadfast race 

Sounded that battle hymn, 

Quaint heaven-vauntlngs, with God's gauntlet 

flung, 
To me bequeathed, from age to age, 
My challenge and my heritage; 
"The Lord Is In His holy place" — 
How In their ears the herald voice has rung! 
Now will I make bright their sword, 
Will pilgrim in their ancient path, 
Will haunt the temple of their Lord ; 
Truth that Is neither variable nor hath 
Shadow of turning, I will find 
In the wise ploddlngs of their faithful mind; 
Or finding not, as in this frustrate hour 

28 



By questions hounded, waylaid by despair, 
Yet in these uses shall I know His power, 
As the warm flesh by breathing knows the air. 

futile comfort! My faith-hungry heart 
Still in your sweetness tastes a poisonous sour; 
Far-off, far-off I quiver 'neath the smart 

Of old indignities and obscure scorn 

Indelibly on man's proud spirit laid, 

That now in time's ironic masquerade 

Minister healing to the hurt and worn! 

What are those streams that from the altar pour 

Where goat and ox and human captive bled 

To feed the blood-lust of the murderous priest? 

1 cannot see where Christ's dear love is shed, 
So deep the insatiate horror w^ashes red 
Flesh-stains and frenzy-sears and gore. 

Beneath that Cross, whereon His hands outspread, 
What forest shades behold what shameful rites 
Of maidenhood surrendered to the beast 

29 



In obscene worship on midsummer nights! 

What imperturbable disguise 

Enwraps these organs with a chaste restraint 

To chant innocuous hymns and litanies 

For sinner and adoring saint, 

Which yet inherit like an old blood-taint 

Some naked caperings in the godliest tune, — 

Goat-songs and jests strong with the breath of Pan, 

That charmed the easy cow-girl and her man 

In uncouth tryst beneath a scandalous moon! 

Ah, could I hearken with their trust. 

Or see with their pure-seeing eyes 

Who of the frame of these dear mysteries 

Were not too wise! 

Why cannot I, as in a stronger hour, 
Outface the horror that defeats me now? 
Have I not reaped complacent the rich power 
That harvests from this praise and bowing low? 
On this strong music I have mounted up, 

30 



At yonder rail broke bread, and shared the holy 

cup, 
And on that cross have hung, and felt God's pain 
Sorrowing, sorrowing, till the world shall end. 

Not from these forms my questionings come 
That serving truth are purified, 
But from the truth itself, the way, the goal, 
One challenge vast that strikes faith dumb — 
If truth be fickle, who shall be our guide? 
"Truth that is neither variable, nor hath 
Shadow of turning?" Ah, where turns she not! 
Where yesterday she stood, 
Now the horizon empties — lo, her steps 
Where yonder scholar woos, are hardly cold, 
Yet shall he find her never, but the thought 
Mantling within him like her blood 
Shall from his eloquence fade, and leave his words 
Flavor'd with vacant quaintness for his son. 
What crafty patience, scholar, hast thou used, 

31 



Useless ere it was begun — 

What headless waste of wing, 

Beating vainly round and round ! 

In no one Babel were the tongues confused, 

But they who handle truth, from sound to sound 

Master another speech continuously. 

Deaf to familiar words, our callous ear 

Will quiver to the edge of utterance strange; 

When truth to God's truth-weary sight draws 

near, 
Cannot God see her till she suffer change? 
Must ye then change, my vanished youth. 
Home customs of my dreams? 
Change and farewell! 
Farewell, your lost phantasmic truth 
That will not constant dwell. 
But flees the passion of our eyes 
And leaves no bint behind her 
Whence she dawns or whither dies. 
Or if she live at all, or only for a moment seems. 

32 



Here though I only dream I find her, 

Here will I watch the twilight darken. 

Yonder the scholar's voice spins on 

Mesh upon mesh of loveless fate; 

Here will I rest while truth deserts him still. 

What hath she left thee, Brother, but thy voice? 

After her, have thy will, 

And happy be thy choice! 

Here rather will I rest, and hearken 

Voices longer dead but longer loved than thine. 

Yet still my most of peace is more unrest, 

As one who plods a summer road 

Feels the coolness his own motion stirs, 

But when he stops the dead heat smothers him. 

Here in this calm my soul is weariest. 

Each question with malicious goad 

Pressing the choice that still my soul defers 

To visioned hours not thus eclipsed and dim, 

Lest in my haste I deem 

33 



That truth's invariable part 

Is her eluding of man's heart. 

Farewell, calm priest who pacest slow 

After the stalwart-marching choir! 

Have men through thee taught God their dear 

desire ? 
Hath God through thee absolved sin? 
What is thy benediction, if I go 
Sore perplexed and wrought within? 
Open the chapel doors, and let 
Boisterous music play us out 
Toward the flaring molten west 
Whither the nerve-racked day is set; 
Let the loud world, flooding back, 
Gulf us in its hungry rout; 
Rest? What part have we In rest? 

Boy with the happy face and hurrying feet, 
Who with thy friendy cap's salute 
Sendest bright hail across the college street, 

34 



If thou couldst see my answering lips, how mute, 

How loth to take thy student courtesy! 

What truth have I for thee? 

Rather thy wisdom, lad, Impart, 

Share thy gift of strength with me, 

Still with the past I wrestle, but the future girds 
thy heart. 

Clutter of stubborn yesterdays that clothe us like a 
shell, 

Thy spirit sloughs their bondage off, to walk new- 
born and free. 

All things the human heart hath learned — God, 
heaven, earth and hell — 

Thou weighest not for what they were, but what 
they still may be. 

Whether the scholar delve and mine for faith- 
wreck buied deep, 

Or the priest his rules and holy rites, letter and 
spirit, keep. 

Toil or trust In breathless dust, they shall starve 
at last for truth; 

35 



Scholar and priest shall live from thee, who art 

eternal youth. 
Holier If thou dost tread it, every path the prophets 

trod ; 
Clearer vrhere thou dost w^orshlp, rise the ancient 

hymns to God ; 
Not by the priest but by thy prayers are altars 

sanctified ; 
Strong with new love where thou dost kneel, the 

cross whereon Christ died. 



36 



THE SONS OF METANEIRA 

I 

JJarkening the open door, In thought he gazed 
On his ripe meadows, on the mountain road, 
On the still trees above the shaded well; 
Then inward to the twilight room he turned 
Where Metaneira sat — 

"Strange that a woman 
Who fears not child-bearing, neither the pain 
Nor peril, cannot face, save panic-pale. 
The bringing up of children day by day. 
With danger courage comes, and with thine hour 
Com^s on brave yearnings for this child unborn, 
But no heart comes for the safe homely years — 
Small fingers at thy bosom, growing hands 
That cling to thine, and running feet beside thee. 
And face upturned to love thee with quick smiles. 

37 



The boy we have, what dread was thine to rear! 
Yet he takes life as one who loves to live; 
Joy is the breath of him. This other child 
As fair, I think, befalls, if but thy fear 
Cloud not its spirit." 

Leaning from the low couch 
She answered — 

"I feared no danger, nor shunned pain; 
I thought only of what a man may share 
With woman, the precious burden of childhood — 
Not the nine months, the birth more exquisite" 
Of the young soul slowly finding the world. 

Celeus, when I brood on the frail bark 
We dare be pilot far, and blindly grope 

With clumsy guesses toward the eternal shore, 

1 think how reckless in the eyes of gods 
Human desire must seem, and human love. 
So thinking, I feel terror and loneliness; 
Then I reach out for help to thee, but thou 
Answerest as though these were but simple things, 

38 



And life simple, and children in the world 
No care." 

"The gods who send desire," he said, 
"Fear not to trust us with the incarnate dream. 
But art thou lonely, Metaneira — thou 
Who wouldst not keep handmaid, nor slave nor 

free, 
Near, if thy child need rearing? Lonely art thou? 
Nay, jealous as the wuld deer for thy young! 
So fearful when the boy was born, and now 
Thou hast sent thy woman away, even ere the birth. 
Do I not know?" 

"Celeus," she cried, "wherefore 
Chide me for what is love? To thee the day 
Brings a plain round, things simply to be done. 
What happens, happens, and so to dreamless rest. 
But I see what might happen, and the hours 
Come fateful with hard choices, good and ill, 
And the day's labor is, by taking thought, 
To seize the good. Therefore with all my love 

39 



I watch the lightest breath the infant draws; 
The ill that might molest himi comes on me, 
I feel the blow that falls not. What hireling 
Cares for another's child so? Bruise and tumble 
Are natural luck, they say; and the child's soul 
Takes its luck too. I have sent them all away. 
Nay, but the loneliness I feel is more — 
A mystery that lifts me from' the world, 
A strangeness as if earth were not my home. 
And our love but a visitant from afar." 

Celeus with earnest eyes looked from the door, 
And saw Eleusis under summer skies. 
The meadows and the mountain road — the world 
Wherein he native was, and she was strange. 
Then turning toward her — 

"Thou art a wistful woman; 
Dreams and weird thoughts are more to thee than 

breath, 
And the unsecret earth before thee, thou 
Veilest with phantoms, with imagined clouds. 

40 



Wherefore dost thou reach ever out from life 
With eyes for what cannot be seen, with hearing 
For whispers and echoes where none else hears 

sound ? 
Our loves, that made us one, in this alone. 
Drive our two hearts asunder. Sorrow I see, 
And mischief, yet the common fate is plain; 
Nothing waylays nor haunts us; life, in itself 
Clear, would ask but courage to be lived. 
Earth is our brother, and light over all 
Draws from our dust the destined fruit and bloom — 
Dreams, fears and hopes, rooted in what we are. 
So I have thought, and the one child we have 
Through his seven years confirms me. Hast thou 

seen 
How humanly he learns the arts whereby 
Man and the gods within him build his world? 
His hopes are better than the things he has, 
And what he has, helps him to reach his hopes. 
Nothing will harm him, no shadow threaten, 

41 



Save his own errors; nothing this child unborn 
Will harm, if but the darkness of thy mood 
Blight not its soul. Fate is man's handiwork, 
I believe, whereon the gods look, and forgive, 
And a dark fancy prophesying ill 
Is but a true suspicion of ourselves; 
The gods, whose eyes are clear, clearly behold 
The seeds w^ithin us of our cherished doom; 
They with immortal sorrow watch us all 
Thwarting the good they will us; and most they 

grieve 
When love like thine, exquisitely alert, 
Brings headlong on its danger, fancy- framed." 

She answered sadly — "Celeus, the boy and thou 
Feel not the mystery that oppresses me; 
Would that I had thy nature, the sunshine. 
The faith opening like earth after fresh rain; 
But my love reaches, and I feel thy hand 
Helping, but cannot find thy heart." 

His hand 
42 



Reached out. 

"I would a woman were here," he said, 
"To share thy loneliness; I would the gods 
Would send, however humble, a comrade for thee, 
Comrade for thee, and helper for the child." 

With large eyes she questioned him — "A 

stranger?" 



43 



II 

All glamour, golden beauty arched with blue, 
Eleusis, vale of peace, enchanted lay — 
Meadows, and by the mountain road one house, 
Dark trees, beneath their shadow a clear well. 
And far away the Immeasurable sea 
Falnt-sounding ; drunk with autumn savors, earth 
Rich harvest-scent was breathing, and burnt 

leaves — 
When down the road a lonely wanderer came. 
An aged form, that step by step between 
Some place far back and some place far beyond 
Measured the weariness. Grey was her hair. 
Here eyes were grieving, her firm lips were proud; 
Her body, tall and stately, mantle-wrapped. 
Majestic swayed like wheat In summer wind, 
As slowly to the wellslde she drew near^ — 

44 



There darkly paused, with folded patient hands, 
Fixed as a carven stone. 

Over the world 
The magic gleam shone brighter, the low sun, 
Slanting, reached to the grass beneath the trees 
And robbed the well of shadow, save where still 
The woman stood. Suddenly from the house 
A radiant boy came running with light foot, 
Balancing on his shoulder a water-jar — 
Then at the shadow waiting unawares. 
Marble-like, with bowed and grieving head, 
He curbed his dancing mood and walked sedate. 
Shamefaced before a stranger. While he drew. 
She watched in silence till the jar was full, 
Then in low tones that thrilled with pleasure-pain 
Like the delirious chill from autumn fields 
Swift after sunset — 

"Doth thy mother live, 
A rich woman, that without envy looks 
On strangers' children? Who of yon wide house 

45 



Is master?" 

Brimming with joy to share, "Celeus, 
Whose son I am, Triptolemus," he cried. 
"Hark, dost thou hear my one brother weeping, born 
This very day?" 

He paused for sheer delight. 
And she, kindling with sudden hope — ''What 

woman 
Ministers to thy mother and the child? 
Where is thy father? Run to him — bid hi«i say 
If there be timely service I can do, 
Service that wisdom asks and practised hands; 
Tell him, brief is the shelter age desires. 
But long the recompense of pity endures." 

Eagerly on his errand sped the boy. 
Tasting a new adventure; soon he brought 
His father, walking slow, whose earnest words 
Challenged her — 

"Woman, what thing of grief art thou. 
Shadowing these waters with unbidden gloom? 

46 



What thing of grief and age, that dost desire 
To handle joy newborn?" 

Her quiet voice 
Like a soft rainfall sang — 

"Bitter the bread 
The stranger eats and earns not; gods nor men 
Who suffer alms are free ; let me but serve. 
Only to abide a little, to be still. 
To seek for nothing, to buy with quiet hands 
A quiet heart" — 

"Quietness and to spare," 
Celeus broke in, "room by the hearth enough, 
And work enough ; abide here, since thou wilt." 

When he had spoke, the boy, as if to unfold 
Kindness out of the scant and measured words, 
Reached for her hand and slowly toward the home, 
Silently to the doorway, brought her. There 
With lifted arms of prophecy she prayed — 
"To all this house the immortal gods be friends, 
And chiefly to this lad, who gave me rest. 

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Master of field and meadow shall he be, 
To plow, to plant, to reap — him and his sons 
The earth obey forever!" 

His boyhood felt 
Exquisite shadowed beauty, earth under stars; 
Her words startled like bird-notes in the dawn; 
Suddenly for her presence the house seemed small. 



48 



Ill 

Autumn to winter, winter drew to spring, 
And comfortable became her ways, like all 
Love-service wrought by customary hands. 
Sap in the vein, soft-stirring with the year, 
And kindling at her presence, human love; 
Strange wants unrealized, hungers of heart. 
Mystical poverties of soul, she filled ; 
Even as common field-flowers casually 
Borrow the sun and use the earth and sky, 
The household without reckoning dwelt with her. 

But when to autumn the year turned again 
And the old poignant beauty filled the world, 
The mother Metaneira, spirit-quick. 
Felt the home troubled with awe wonderful. 
She pondered long these motions of vague fear, 
Still troubled more, till in a twilight mood 

49 



She broke them to her husband and the boy, 
Under the spell of her strange insight rising 
Maenad-mad, — wild eyes and haunted face; 
With the intense flame of passionate thought 
Her fragile body quivered as she spoke — 
"Who is this phantom, this weird wayfarer. 
Ye two brought in to aid me? Know ye not 
The Shining Ones oft hide in human forms, 
And darker spirits, brooding mischief, oft 
Resemble to betray us?" 

Celeus frowned ; 
"She is a quiet phantom, grant her that! 
All that haunt us, the gods make old like her. 
So quiet and so wise! Summer and winter 
Has not her faithful toil prospered the year? 
What strangeness has she done?" 

Poised among fears, 
Perplexed to choose, the mother hesitated. 
Then answered not his question but her own 
thoughts — 

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"She loves the child, she loves, but not as we 

Love it, not with a simple heart; secrets 

We cannot guess at, her deep manner hides; 

Her service steals upon us like a spell, 

Yet something fugitive in all she does, 

Some touch of marvel, some too perfect skill, 

Makes helpless those she helps. Oft she escapes. 

As though her mood were hampered by our eyes. 

And strangely broods or dreams or works alone. 

Now for two nights, with the first dusk, I saw her 

Stealthily watch me, — then the cradled babe 

She lifted to her breast and made pretense 

To soothe, though it slept sound, — then to the hall 

Yonder carried the child, and slyly drew 

The bolts, I heard them creak, in the closed door." 

Celeus, still unpersuaded, comforted her — 
"The skill of old hands is another youth; 
Youth is the earliest magic, and the last 
Is practice, nothing more; this woman's skill 
Came with her years, but sorrow makes her 
strange." 

51 



Instant upon the word, as at the return 
Of half-forgotten fear, the mother cried — 
"What is this sorrow, then, that shadows her? 
A human grief with time unfolds to love, 
And tears that are not shame are shared at last, 
But all the kindness of our house melts not 
The silence from her lips; — she may not will 
Mischief, but power she has, she pilots fate — 
Were not her words prophetic for the boy 
That named him master of meadows and of fields, 
Whom the earth should obey? Did not the grain 
Ripen miraculous where she bade him sow? 
Did not the grove she planted, the young trees. 
Thrive beyond hope? Weird blessings fall on us. 
Yet rather would I lose the alien gift 
Than dread the lurking debt still to be paid." 

Wondering at his mother, the young boy 
Pleaded, suddenly eloquent out of love — 
"All that she taught me, of earth and sun and 
showers, 

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Of seed and tilth and gathering of the grain, 
To others I could teach — no weird secret, 
But simple knowledge waiting to be used. 
The things that beauty touches become strange, 
I heard her say; the strangeness thou dost fear, 
Is it not beauty?" 

The mother, following her dread, 
Hearing him not — "'Only a little while, 
A little while ago I found her gazing 
On the bare fields as one looks on the dead. 
And from her moving lips came soft, wild words: 
'O loveliness (she whispered) rapt away! 
Who now, thy face beholding, gathers joy? 
Ay me, the joy that from eternal love 
Up from my bosom flowing bloomed in thee! 
The wheat, the poppy languish meadow-shorn, 
The summer dies. O thou that canst not lan- 
guish. 
Maiden lost, Immortal One ! ' " — 

The voice 

53 



Of Metanelra faltered and grew faint, 

Uttering the remembered cry; but Celeus 

With deeper pity reproved her perverse mood — 

"Hast thou not heard of lost loves in the world, 
Of hearths vacant, of hopes precious but vain? 
She in her years is wounded with old sorrows; 
This babe of ours, soft-breathing on her breast, 
Brings back through tears the frail unburied ghost. 
Some girl long dead, whom grief hath made di- 
vine. 
Ah, Metaneira, that having lost no child 
Knowest not the faithful pain, the abiding grief!" 

"And wouldst thou lose him," Metaneira cried, 
"The babe that helpless lies on her strange heart? 
Have I not said, when the day ends she carries 
To yonder room the sleeping child away. 
Stealing with furtive glances, and with guile 
Barring the door? Now hearken! Underneath 
And over, by the hinges, through the latch, 
Sharp gleams shoot out, long blades of eerie light, 

54 



That all but pierce the nailed and paneled wood. 
After a space the light fades, stealthily 
The latch withdraws, and with too perfect care 
She enters crooning slumber-songs — O clear 
The triumph in her face, the evil shining! 
And when I take the child, dim meadow-scent, 
Damp odors, flood etherial o'er my brain. 
And the child's eyes, on more than infant depths 
Brooding, grow wonderful with calm — Celeus! 
See now," she cried, "the light streams through the 
door!" 
Flinging her fragile body, she burst the latch, 
And frenzied saw the woman holding outstretched 
The child, and waves of weird light washing it, 
Fire that from the hearth seemed not to flame, 
But like a rolling sea filled the whole room. 
One glimpse — and Metaneira, crazed with love, 
Tore fiercely from those hands the flame-wrapped 

babe. 
Then from the earth the woman rose, a queen 

55 



Celestial, young and fair; the glowing sea 
Ebbed from the room into her burning heart, 
As to its source, and beautiful was her wrath, 
Light-giving. And Metaneira stood aghast. 



56 



IV 

Slowly a sad, majestic voice began, 
"Blind, like all mortals! Ye withhold the gods 
From their unfinished blessings. Know ye me? 
Demeter; from vain walking in this world 
To find the lost Persephone, Pluto's bride, 
Hither I came, and here for a little rest, 
A little quietness to sorrow in, 
I laid my godhood by, and hid myself 
In human poverty and mortal years. 
Could ye not guess, such blessings as I brought 
Come only from the gods? First I bestowed 
On yonder lad the mastery of earth. 
The labors that men do beneath the sun 
Shall be for him no burden but sheer joy; 
He shall have knowledge of this world as it is, 
He shall love what is kindred to his fate, 

57 



He shall know men, and he shall know his gods. 

But for this other child, this dreaming babe 
That stirred the memory of my ancient heart, 
I would have furnished immortality. 
So frail he seemed, so pitiful, so pure. 
And time so stern a teacher, and the path 
So rough, where he must stumble, fall by fall 
Painfully fashioning his eternal soul — 
To spare him, I desired, — to make his days 
All of such moments as the happiest men 
Dream only at their best. Here by the fire 
I washed in deathless love the mortal mind, 
And fast the god grew in him, till your fear 
Ruined the heavenly will. Now he shall be 
Master of nothing, but dreams shall master him. 
A pilgrim of confusion shall he be; 
Two worlds alternate shall be his, but rest 
In neither; painfully shall his hand, his eye, 
On the obdurate face of things lay hold, 
The while his dreams look on what never was; 

58 



And for he cannot tell the twain apart, 
Madness and ecstasy shall envelop him, 
Out of the world he finds but will not see. 
Building a world he sees but cannot find. 
Yea, from his love the things he loves shall come, 
And from his fear shall come the things he fears. 
Nothing that is shall teach him what it is — 
Pain of this world, still knocking at the door, 
Nor grief that stabs, nor joy that comforts him; 
He shall be strange to thee, for all thy love. 
And for thy sake, for him all things be strange; 
Whate'er he loves shall whisper him farewell, 
And waft him on the exile of his dream — 
A human face, a shining on the sea. 
The cold moon, or the still march of stars, 
If but the inexorable beauty call, 
Eternity, rising in him like a tide. 
Shall from their bases lift and set afloat 
The stranded accidents of time." 

She ceased, 
59 



The light died from the room, and she was gone. 
But Metaneira heard, far-off, the voice 
Of Celeus, like a sound breaking on sleep — 
"The woman is not here. Thy fears were vain." 



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